


Moongoat

by crescendi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Child Neglect, Chucklevoodoos, Experimental Style, Game Over Timeline, Gen, Meteorstuck, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Sober Gamzee Makara, Sopor Slime, Unreliable Narrator, excessive use of 'motherfuck' and its variants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 05:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18423393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescendi/pseuds/crescendi
Summary: Somenights, feels like there’s two of him. One is his rage-self, the self that broke the little rouge’s bones with his bare motherfucking hands, the self that knows of his ascendancy. One is his wiggler-self, the tiny motherfucking troll with the green and pink moons reflected in his bug-eyes, the boy always waiting for a goat that never comes back up from the sea.





	Moongoat

Your name is Ga

-

Your name is Gamzee Makara and 

(no)

-

 _ **KNEEL** **,**_ you scream, the butcher at his height, tugging the string tighter and

-

Your name is Gamzee. You are—

-

You go by the calling of GAMZEE MOTHERFUCKING MAKARA and this isn’t how it goes

-

Power is danger. Danger is power. The words are synonymous. Fluid. Interchangeable. Twins, like the human boy and human girl. Speak one and the other rings by it all silent.

If you got power, you’re dangerous. You’re dangerous, then you got power. Ain’t a hard concept to wrap even a wiggler’s motherfucking pan around. Even in his muddled, panrotted state of being from all those sweeps ago on that empty hive full of slime on that motherfucking beach, he knew that. 

Gamzee curls his claws into fists, slowlike, one-at-time.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Somenights, feels like there’s two of him. One is his rage-self, the self that broke the little rouge’s bones with his bare motherfucking hands, the self that knows of his ascendancy. One is his wiggler-self, the tiny motherfucking troll with the green and pink moons reflected in his bug-eyes, the boy always waiting for a goat that never comes back up from the sea.

(Motherfuck, sometimes it feels like there’s an overlap tween the two—Grape Faygo tears spring up at the corners of his eyes.

But one self cries for the lusus. The other cries for the solferino blood that pumped in its motherfucking veins.

But both still agree that the old goat looked like goddamn beauty, rising out the crashing waves, with tapered horns and a sleek body, silhouetted against the stars.)

And when he catches a glimpse of his reflection, he only half-recognizes his motherfucking self. Same untamed hair, same smeared facepaint, same corkscrewing horns, but when did his eyes get all—

 _—angry?_  

It’s the rage. It’s the rage that split him, that sharpened him, that made him motherfucking wild. It’s the rage that WOKE HIM THE FUCK UP, snapped him out of the stupor he’d been stuck in.

Kurloz’s got rage too. But the rage don’t make him wild in the same type of way, you catch his motherfucking drift, most accursed bibliomaniac? Rage sharpens the other Makara til his star-white eyes are razors, cutting and slicing and picking and peeling. Rage made him smart, made him sly. Gamzee wonders if the rage woke him up, if the rage split him too. Wonders if he waited on the beach for the same old goat too. Wonders if he ever was a sorry motherfucker, high on his own slime, prattling to some pissbloods that didn’t care enough to hate him.

He uncurls his firsts, one elongated finger at time—one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty twenty-one twenty-two twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five twenty-six—ah, fuck. He’d lost count of how many touchstumps he had on his hands, didn’t he? He’d be counting up to infinity if he hadn't caught it. Numbers are funny that way. Real motherfucking funny, the kind that draws a good long laugh out of him. They still confound him. There’s always more of them. It’s miraclelike.

Gamzee used to pass the time by moonwatching, high on sopor, but there ain’t no motherfucking moon here. No slime neither. So he humanwatches.

He causes nightmares. Don’t mean to. But when he crawls through the vents, looks down at the candybloods, the humans with a heart pushin’ subtroll sludge through their veins and he starts to get his think on about  _how dare they let a highblood such as you EVEN LAY EYES ON THEIR FLESHBODIES WITHOUT THROWING **THEMSELVES AT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING FEET AND GROVELING FOR YOUR DIVINE FORGIVENNESS—**_

But then he gets to think of the red of his diamond’s blood and the guilt gets to him, imprints its teeth on his bloodpusher. They’re the same shade of scarlet. Same shade of that preacher of that highest motherfucking blaspheme.

No matter, their mugs still twist all motherfucking unpleasant with fear. They still scream out for someone to stop, for someone to help their poor, sorry souls, wake up with tears in their eyes and screams in their throats. The Knight and the Seer find each other, hold each other in the way human brothers and sisters do. Almost pale. Almost tugs at the strings of his frozen bloodpusher.

(Purple and red. They look motherfucking pretty together. They look _right_. Color of the two human’s eyes too. They look right together too, most closest brother and sister staring into an explosion, rising up to become the newest motherfucking gods.

Gamzee gets his smile on. Smiles and smiles and smiles. Gnashes his teeth until his motherfucking gums drip with heliotrope.)

His own dreams are filled with blood and sea and gods and goats and puppets and moons.

He can never decide if it’s a good or bad dream.)

Gamzee exhales, pushing all the Breath of his motherfucking lungs, blocking out all noise but the roar of Blood in ears, the whir of his Mind.

Speaking of the lawbug. He can’t more than halfremember any of their pitch trysts. It’s a blur of teal and gray and purple and then he’s hauling himself the motherfuck back into the vents. Ain’t exactly pleasant, but he finds he can’t stop coming back. It feels.

It feels like a motherfucking third self. Bright and cold, turning his lips the color of vinca minor. Poking and meddling and prodding and fussing.

(FEELS MOTHERFUCKING WRONG)

But he can't linger on it for too long, else it feels like fangs are pressing into his temples til all he can see is ultramarine.

He knows how to make a troll scare. Knows how to make anything with half a pan scare. Knows how make anyone fold themself over all crumple-like at his feet, pissin’ their pants for fear of him. Could turn everyone on this rock into his worshiper.

But, nah. Kar won’t like that. And he’s gotta care for his palemate, right?

He don’t search his best friend (HIS MOST SACRILEGIOUS CONFIDANT) out much. Only on the days and nights and dusks when it feels like the rage is gonna swallow his pan whole, like he's gonna beat his clubs til they're stained with green and red, and everyone knows green don't go with red. Comes crawling on palms and knees to the small motherfucker, throat bared soft and vulnerable, clicking and purring all pale, all in need of pacification. It ain’t how diamonds usually work, but who would give a single shitblood’s bulge when all but five trolls in the entire motherfucking multiverse went belly-up, right?

There is a beat. Somewhere. Two-time. It pounds into his pan. Feels like a wardrum bashing into his skull. Same beat of his clubs into a girl's skull.

(Maybe if Dad had paid more attention to what he was puttin' into his flap, he’d never have gorged himself on slime in the first place and Gamzee would have grown up to be a perfect Alternian. In that story, his hands are still slick with green and blue.)

His teeth sink into his lickmuscle. Deep pomegranate blood fills his mouth. Tastes like hot iron.

Once, when he was a small, sorry motherfucker, he got lost. Wandered the beach for nights, crashed in caves to avoid the sun. Still got burnt. Thrashed around because of the nightmares. He don’t know how he survived. The goat didn’t even notice he’d ever left. (The goat didn’t even notice him in the Game, and the rage-self wished he’d never prototyped the motherfucker.)

Must be a miracle.

-

Your name is GAMZEE MAKARA and there was a hole, rotted in the bottom of your pan.

It’s all gone now, the gaps the rot left replaced with THE MOST HOLY AND SACRED OF UNDERSTANDINGS.

But that don’t mean there was never no infection.

Don’t mean there’s no aching scar there.


End file.
